In that moment, that precious moment,
We let go of inhibitions and fear,
We are vulnerable with each other
And our stories of hurt we share.
A solemn face is gently stroked
By loving hands that brush against her hair.
With tears in my eyes I kiss her lovingly,
And wipe away her tears.
-
-
In fiercest battles and whirling winds
I pray the Lord forgive my sins.
The scars of my wounds, they tell the tale;
For those who are are blind, read my torment in braille.
My heart is sorrowful, and my boots are worn,
My clothes are tattered and my will is torn.
If nothingness then calls my name,
Will I relent or live on in pain?
In numbing irrelevance the seasons pass;
I care not less how long the winter lasts.
The spring will come, and the summer blooms,
But I will not know in my darkened room;
Many lovers have left after boastful claims
Of staying by my side to subside my pain.
At ungodly hours I may read love letters
Of twenty years past when things seemed better.
The loving nuances, and the promises made;
the plans we had, that in time did fade.
“I will love you forever.” “Sincerely yours.”
“Without you there is no life.” “It is you I adore.”
But to know my name is to know my pain,
And to know my pain is continuous rain. -
In silent rooms, silent tears are shed;
Silent eulogies are read of unspoken words of love
That on silent nights, always should have been said. -
Cold winter winds blow tears away from green eyes;
Sobbing reverberates in the frigid night.
Towering trees shed leaves to acknowledge her agony.
Her loving heart is deeply wounded from sorrow;
A bright winter moon highlights a trail of red snow. -
In a dimly lit room,
Gaunt, bluish discolored hands
Slowly reach for heavenly light. -
When there is no more life in the eyes,
The stillness of lifelessness is penetrating;
The sterility of coldness and finality is harsh.
It is like the taste of metal in the mouth.
I contemplate the nothingness of it.
The days of men are counted in seasons.
When I look upon them, is tears all I can give?
For they are men no more, but have been reborn.
They will live; they will yet live.
In my memory, I will count them as gods. -
Gentle evening
Breezes comfort a lonely
weeping willow tree. -
Nothingness.
Intimate Compositions 